Faking It. Stefanie London

That isn’t part of our undercover script.

      Because kisses can be faked and affections can be feigned, but a hard-on tells me that maybe I’m not the only one who’s super into this right now. And that’s a terrifying thought, because it’s easy for me to hate Owen for rejecting me all those years ago. For teasing me about my crush on him. It’s easy for me to write him off as someone who’s totally wrong for me.

      But unfortunately, I’ve never stopped lusting over Owen Fletcher. Now the floodgates have been opened and I have to live with him as man and wife. Screwing your co-worker isn’t exactly a great career move.

      But something tells me that I’ll be going to bed with this kiss on my mind every damn night until we either crack this case, or until I give in to the feelings that have been haunting me for the past decade. Right now, as I writhe against him, I’m not sure which option I prefer.

       CHAPTER FIVE

       Owen

      HANNAH FEELS LIKE heaven in my hands, but she kisses like the devil. Dark and sinful and so tempting my mere mortal brain has no hope of withstanding her. When I pulled her toward me, I hadn’t expected her to respond with such enthusiasm. The kiss was a legitimate action to maintain cover and within the boundaries of our work.

      The wood in my jeans was not.

      I’d been prepared to keep my hands at ten and two—high school dance style—until the second she’d rubbed against me, purring like a kitten and taking a lit match to my decency. The sound coming from her mouth scrambles my brain, making me think of long sweaty nights and the feeling of thighs clamping down on my head. My fantasy woman always has dark hair and dark eyes, and it didn’t occur to me until right now that Anderson could be that woman. She has been that woman...more times than I will ever admit.

      But Anderson is a family woman. A heart-and-soul kind of woman. A forever woman. And that means we’ll never be anything more than friends.

      Her lips work against mine, her tongue sliding into my mouth as she presses herself against me. Grinding. I’m pinned to the fence, my body temperature skyrocketing. I want nothing more than to spin her around so I can use the fence to brace her back while I drag her legs up and encourage her to lock her heels behind my back.

      But this is work. And this kiss is veering into the space where one of us is taking advantage of the situation—only I don’t know who.

      “He’s gone.” I whisper against her lips. It’s dark outside and I can’t see the details of her expression, but I feel the effects of the kiss in the puffiness of her lips. In the quickness of her breath.

      “Well,” she says shakily. “That’s a relief.”

      “Yeah, I got the impression you thoroughly hated that.” The teasing comes easily, naturally. It’s like breathing for me. Like walking.

      But what I really want is to tell her that she’s got me hot and bothered. That I’ll have to scrub this memory from my mind if I have any hope of keeping my focus on the case. But my focus is no better than a crystal glass thrown against a brick wall. It’s thousands of irreparable glittering shards. I want to punish that sweet mouth of hers and haul her over my shoulder so I can take her straight to my bed.

      “What now?” she asks.

      I want to stay in this bubble forever—me and her. That kiss. The feel of her subtle curves against me. “We take the show back to the apartment.”

      “What?” she squeaks, stepping back suddenly. No longer covered in the shadows of the tree, the moonlight bounces off her face—off her wide eyes and lush mouth. I bet the tips of her ears are bright red.

      “We’re newlyweds who’ve gotten distracted by a kiss and now we’re heading back home to finish what we started.” I grin and step forward, causing her to back up. “Do you have a problem with that, darling wife?”

      She rolls her eyes and turns, heading back across the garden. In a few strides, I catch up to her and sling an arm around her shoulders. I’m surprised to find a smirk on her lips. “I think if anyone thoroughly enjoyed that kiss, it was you, by the way,” she says.

      Our footsteps fall in time. “What powers of deduction did you use to figure that out?”

      “You’re going to make me say it?” She shakes her head. There’s more light overhead now as we approach the barbeque area and her ears are definitely pink. “It was pretty bloody obvious.”

      “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

      She opens her mouth to respond, but we’re interrupted by a group spilling out of the building and into the shared barbeque area. There are three men dressed in casual attire, laughing and carrying food. Two of the men look to be brothers and all appear to be in their early thirties.

      “You’re new.” One of the brothers points a pair of tongs in our direction. The others wave and set themselves up around the barbeque. “Level six, right?”

      “Word travels fast.” I stick my hand out. “Owen. This is my wife, Hannah.”

      The W-word rolls off my tongue far too easily and it stirs something uncomfortable in my gut.

      “Dom.” The guy is built like a bear and has a grip to match. “That’s my brother, Rowan, and our mate Matt.”

      “We moved in today,” Hannah says, her smile a little too wide. I reach for her hand and squeeze—hoping it looks more loving and less like the warning it is. Rule number one of being undercover, never offer more information than you need to. “This morning, actually. We’ve been unpacking all day.”

      She’s nervous. Hannah is like a fountain when she’s nervous, which normally I am all about. But now is not the time for verbal diarrhea. I squeeze her hand again.

      “It’s a great building.” Dom nods. “Ro and I moved in about two years ago.”

      If it’s true, it doesn’t really seem to fit the timeline, since the activity only started up within the last six months...but that’s a big if. Could be part of their cover story. I’ll get my hands on the building management documents and corroborate that information.

      My eyes drift to the two men firing up the barbeque. They’re laughing and joking. Matt is dressed in all black and he could very well have been the shadowy figure who interrupted us in the garden.

      “How did you all meet?” I ask.

      “Matt went to high school with us. He’s a chef.”

      Rowan looks up from the barbeque and grins. He has a cavalier air about him, like he’s a bit of a joker. “You wouldn’t know it with the way he butchered this meat. Looks like it was done with a hacksaw.”

      “I can’t work magic with shitty tools,” Matt grumbles. Unlike Rowan and Dom, he’s fair-haired and has sharp grey eyes.

      “What do you do?” Hannah asks, looking up at Dom.

      “Ro and I run the family business, an art gallery.”

      I have to actively conceal my surprise. Dom looks more like a bricklayer than the owner of a gallery—though admittedly, I know as much about art as I do about bricklaying. Zip.

      “I run all the events,” Rowan says, wandering over and handing his brother a beer. “Deal with the temperamental artists and mingle with the buyers.”

      In other words, he’s a professional party boy. Could be a good cover, getting to mix and mingle with all the big players in Melbourne and making connections. Maybe he scopes out the targets.

      “And I make sure my brother doesn’t blow all our profit on champagne and canapés.” Dom grins. “You should